Breaker of Lies
by wyval
Summary: A brief glimpse into a White Scar legionnary. Set in Zahariel's Roboutian Heresy universe.
1. Chapter 1

Time is endlessly malleable, deep within the Great Eye; those without and most within have no precise idea of its meandering flow. And I have spent countless aeons deeply immersed in the myriad colors of powerful aetheric radiance. Others would have been driven mad, succumbing to the howling vortex of emotions clawing at their souls. They would have given themselves to one of the Yaksha Kings, kneeling, grovelling at the feet of those uncaring tyrants. It is so much easier to bend the knee, to beg and scrape for attention, for a small measure of power, for slaves and pawns to make the life easier. And those who debase themselves so dare to claim themselves worthy warriors, glorious champions.

 _They know nothing._

Those who bend the knee have forgotten, or perhaps never learnt the lesson the Khagan has taught us - never to trust a Tyrant, no matter if it calls itself Emperor, King, or God. All rulers are tyrants, growing fat and complacent on the blissful ignorance of the massed belief of their sheeplike subjects. Our own so-called brethren have forgotten the betrayal of the Thirteenth, when they so bravely ran from the most important battle. They ran with their tails between their legs, on the cusp of victory, just because their vaunted Primarch died. And for all their cries about courage and honor, they showed not a scrap of either - they did not honor their oaths to us and the others, they did not show the courage needed to finish what their genefather began, and for which he laid down his life. We fought, we bled, we died to ensure the Khagan's will, and to burn away the Emperor's veil of lies. Alone, unsupported, we could not prevail, and had to retreat as well, only to have the accursed Fourth seal us away within the Eye for an eternity - long enough that even the myths of our memory faded from the minds of the ignorant masses.

 _They know nothing._

The Imperium has grown fat and complacent, forgetting their ancient foes. Those sycophantic, deluded kinsmen who sided with the Carrion Tyrant have grown lax in their vigilance. Soon, the precious illusion of gossamer-thin lies will shatter, and their eyes will finally see the truth, hidden for so long by skilled propaganda and fearful ignorance. Soon, their nightmares will rise again, the calling for the Hunt echoing far in the nonexistent distances of the warp. Soon, the stars themselves will echo the laugh of the betrayed sons of the Khagan, the last scions of destroyed Chogoris, as we once again carve the truth deep within the flesh of the rotting, unaware carcass of the Imperium.

 _They know nothing - but I will make them remember. So vows Batu, Khan of the urdu of Jaghatai, loyal son of the Fifth Legion._

* * *

The city around them burns, fire raining from the heavens as the orbiting White Scar vessels commence their bombardment, lance strikes and cannon barrages obliterating troop concentrations, fortifications, defensive emplacements. The planetary vox is alive with the careless, joyful laughter of craftsmen plying their trade, as the Imperial defenders are put to death one after the other; no strongpoint, no Guard formation can resist the whirlwind of blades and death brought to bear on them. The defenders are confused, lashing out blindly, seemingly without coordination - small surprise, since their commanders were amongst the first casualties of the assault, their skulls taken for goblets by the laughing killers.

Panic reigns on the streets of the hive cities, as jetbikes race along the main concourses, strafing the milling throngs with bolter fire, fading into the sun or the darkness of service tunnels whenever measurable firepower is brought to bear against them. Assault marines with meltabombs pounce on the tanks still looking for the evasive raiders, turning the symbols of Imperial might into burning, half-molten wreckages, grim mementoes of the futility of the resistance.

The clouds above swirl and darken, as the _zadyin arga_ of the brotherhood reach out with their power to vent their fury on the ignorant sycophantic cattle bowing to the Carrion Tyrant. Lightning strikes batter Guard formations, Arbites strongpoints, power plants and comm relays with pinpoint precision, reaping a tally of chaos in the storm's wake. Cold, pure winds from the steppes howl within the sheltered walls of the hive cities, their siren song calling people to embrace the wind, to join the hunt, to cast off their chains, and be as they were meant to be. The madness of unfettered, ultimate freedom sweeps up the millions of prisoners entombed under the false faith of the distant, glorified corpse of the tyrant; they vent their never-before tasted feelings with great gusto, drowning the cities in an unholy orgy of sex and violence, as desires run rampant. Free from the oppressive norms of society, of the hidebound dogmatic teachings of the faith, of the restraints of self-control - only their wants and basic urges remain. It is the ultimate gift that the White Scars are all too gleeful to share.

The whooping, ululating raiders of the Fifth Legion are, of course, not without opposition - sure, the Guard can mount some measure of defense at several locations, being led by capable, courageous, disciplined officers, or terrifying commissars, but those brief flares of resistance are snuffed out by the storm of blades and lightning clad in red-marked white power armor. The Scars even take a handful of unlamented losses - no surprise, confidence always veers close to arrogance, and that can lead a warrior like them to foolishness, which in turn serves to make a good example for the rest. Also, a scant few rivalries are settled discreetly during the chaotic hit-and-run assaults in the labyrinthine confines of the hive spires. So what if an errant bolter shell takes off the head of an unmindful, unworthy Legionary? Or a too-wide swing from an immense glaive bifurcates a power armored weakling too slow to move when the Astartes wade into the mass of humanity? Trifling matters, all in all.

No, the real opposition, the real threat, the real aim is slow to manifest itself. As expected, really - the sons of the Hydra ever shy from direct confrontation, when they can. Especially if they have to deal with the descendants of murdered Chogoris, who come to call the traitors of the Twentieth to account for their ancient crime. They were the worthy prey the Scars sought on this world - and while this was not their preferred type of engagement, they fought with all the cunning, tenacity, and skill that Batu expected from his kin, even when they knelt before withered, chained tyrants.

"You have grown slow, cousin." Not even the inhuman growl of the vox can mask the smile and joy behind the words, as Batu throws himself against the Alpha Legionnaire, the sword and halberd singing a tune as old as time. "You seem to have forgotten your past - as if you never thought we would come for you."

His opponent answers only with a flurry of strikes, the attack routine gouging a deep furrow in the white chestplate before Batu spins away.

"Now you're starting to remember." He lunges forward, his blade almost untrackable even with transhuman senses, as he drives the loyalist back. A kick sends the Alpha stumbling, a blade seeking his throat. The legionary dodges with serpentine fluidity, his halberd lancing viper-quick for the Khan's exposed throat. The White Scar parries with a growling laughter, before pushing the attack, his blade a storm of steel hammering away at the desperate defence of the Alpha. Feint against feints, parry and riposte, the two transhuman warriors weave a symphony of death and steel in ever-increasing tempo, but they are both aware that the outcome is not in question.

The loyalist buckles, when a kick snaps his knee. He falls when the follow-up slash cuts deep into his other leg. Two more strikes are parried before the White Scar bisects the halberd, then with a lightning-quick slash, cuts off both the Alpha's hands at the wrists. Quietly chuckling, he strides to the fallen Astartes, and rips away his helmet, before taking off his own. Two pair of eyes meet - one filled with pain and determination, the other with merriment and purpose. The air grows colder around them, the wind crooning its siren song in their ears. Neither of them pay attention. The White Scar's eyes flash with lightning.

"Do you see?" The voice is but a distant thunder, as the vast engine of war that was the Imperium unfolds before the Alpha. The Crusade drowns civilizations, races in blood and fire if they dare to stand up against the golden tyrant. The mighty fleets are always spearheaded by lightning-fast ships liveried in red-marked white, the scouts ranging before the might of the urdu, the warhawk let loose on the endless vista of the plains. The Scars charge forwards with laughter on their lips and freedom in their heart, certain that the Imperium will follow their path. Yet they are left alone, in the darkness of the void, their conquests forgotten, their path forsaken, their glory unnoticed.

"Do you see?" The time of retribution sears vistas of bloody destruction in the Alpha's mind, as the Scars hunt with unchained, merciless ferocity on those who betrayed them and shunted their fate to the darkness. Bereft of their gene-father, exiled by the lying would-be godling clawing for the heavens, the Fifth Legion vents its hatred alongside the Archtraitor's forces.

"Do you see?" The swirling, maddening Eye, the nightmarish planets of ever-changing whims, the solitude of ultimate freedom where the Carrion Tyrant and its blinded sons banished the Scars, for the crime of pointing out their hypocrisy. Watching, waiting with all the patience a true hunter can muster, the Scars bide their time until they are once more forgotten - distant wraiths even to Astartes like the Alphas. And when they return, they are all too eager to show their mettle, to proclaim their superiority, to boast of the truth they alone are not blind to.

"Yes, I do see." And the wounded Alpha Legionnaire grins with bloody satisfaction, as the dark depths of the hive cities come alive with serpentine quickness, the agents of the Twentieth Legion seemingly stepping from the very shadows, as they set upon the White Scars. Imperial ships emerge from the warp, racing towards the planetary orbit, to trap and hammer the traitor vessels.

And Batu laughs, an eager, satisfied sound.


	2. Chapter 2

The previously crumbling resistance rallies with admirable quickness as the warriors of the Twentieth spring their ambush on the blood-drunk traitors. Jetbikes are wiped from the air in the hails of flak from well-hidden Hydra tanks. Bladesmen are baited into duels, Alpha Legionnaires fighting a determined, slowly retreating defense - until the hunger for glory overwrites the Scars' common sense, and they follow their prey to the killbox that awaits them. It is not glorious, nor is it elegant - but it is practical; and when dealing with the Emperor's enemies, almost everything bows to practicality. Or so the Twentieth Legion teaches, and ten thousand years of history have vindicated their opinion countless times.

Kill-squads of Astartes hunt for the dispersed traitor forces, hastening to hit them hard and fast before the Fifth Legion's forces could regroup, form any coherent response, or worse, retreat from the engagement - after spending decades designing the trap, it would be a sad waste to have the prey slip from the Hydra's grasp. From an orbital view or when seen on hololithic screens deep within the secure command bunkers, the markings signifying White Scar forces are slowly but surely entangled in the inexorable, crushing press of the vast jaws of the Hydra - formed of Astartes, Guard, and Mechanicum forces alike.

The storm cover of the Fifth Legion is rent in places, the Librarians of the Alpha Legion tearing away vast swathes of the partially-immaterial clouds, burning off the corrupted atmosphere with cold, righteous wrath in precisely calculated patterns. Guard armor elements smash into the heavy units the traitors have landed, keeping the corrupted Astartes pinned in place for the brief time it takes for the artillery shells to arrive from beyond the horizon or from low orbit when the cloud cover opens. Enhanced operatives trigger their hidden modifications in the hastily-erected slave pens, shedding their masks of innocence to reveal the dedicated killers within - killing a few of the raiders, wounding more, but more importantly, inspiring the other prisoners, and drawing additional forces from the beleaguered White Scars. Members of the Mechanicum focus their efforts on breaking and subverting the machine spirits of the traitor vehicles, attempting to confuse and delay the corrupted husks of once-noble engines for the split second needed to grant them the Omnissiah's peace.

In the darkness of the void, the Navy ships, supported by ships of the Twentieth Legion, close in on the White Scar fleet, closing off withdrawal routes with precisely choreographed maneuvers and not-insignificant firepower. The traitors huddle closer to the planet, attempting to use it as their shield against the incoming retribution, but that only buys them time - and the altered course leaves the landed White Scars without proper orbital support. There will not be quick evacuation, or devastating lance barrages to turn the tide on the surface, no snarling defiance by ramming a ship into the planet's crust just to spite the Imperium.

And yet all these reversals, all the things that turned the White Scar raid to a rout, do not manage to stop the wild, triumphant laughter. It echoes across the vox networks, worms its way into the noosphere, fills the veins of the besieged hive cities, reaches its crescendo over the desolate wastes separating the vast industrial complexes. The forces of the Fifth Legion are on the run, harried mercilessly, the storm simultaneously heralding and protecting them on the verge of dissipation, yet they are laughing - an honest, eager sound. The sound of unfettered, uninhibited freedom.

And in the wake of the joyous laughter, the dead start stirring.

* * *

Batu Khan is fighting the remnants of the Alpha Legion kill-squad who seek his head. They are good, these late descendants of the Twin Primarchs - they fight with consummate skill and determination. They even brought a Librarian along, to further stack the odds in their favor. Praiseworthy, indeed - a well-executed ambush, sprung with machine-like precision. He grins widely under his helmet. The loyalists have almost every advantage on their side, except for two things. None of them have the poetry of the plains in their souls, or are aware of the real, undeniable truth of the Imperium they serve. The White Scar considers it his duty to educate them.

"Come now, cousins, you can do better than this - if you would just open your eyes, shed your chains, you might very well kill me."

He dances to the old tunes of bolters and power weapons, each and every one of them an old friend from countless battlefields spanning over ten millennia. He knows well their siren song, the closest friend and truth all Astartes should learn - and pay for the tuition in sweat, blood, and death. Bolter shells gouge craters from his once-pristine armor, active power fields carve deep trenches into the ceramite, seeking his flesh and life. Uncaringly, he moves aside with a dancer's grace, the immense blade in his hands flashing like lightning, deep crimson sprays following in its wake.

"Why cling to those lies fed to you by agents of the rotting corpse of a tyrant, who still feeds on humanity's suffering? Why are you betraying all that your ancestors and Primarchs fought for? Why are you still feeding a soulless tyranny built on blood, lies, and blind zealotry?"

A moment of stillness, as transhuman senses registers the changed scenario, the slow collapse of three dismembered loyalists, then the smiling killer is moving again, hoarfrost spiralling from under their feet, as the powers of the Immaterium are brought to bear. The Librarian meets him halfway, their blades clashing more than a dozen times in the first second of their duel, seemingly uncaring of the others around them, who look for openings, chinks in the traitor's guard. They find many - yet the White Scar always sways aside or blocks in the last split-second. Even with the Librarian pressing him hard with blade and power, Batu manages to show a measure of his Primarch's swordsmanship to two more whelps as he rams the point of his sword through helmet and skull alike, before he rips the blade sideways, trailing blood, bone, and brain matter, then with a gentle caress of the edge, cuts through the neck seals of a loyalist.

"See? Discipline, precision, endless, repetitive drills are but the first steps." A barely visible clash of power fields, the sound of distant thunder over the plains, and another of the Librarian's companions falls, his torso carved open from shoulder to hip. The White Scar grins with unmitigated joy from behind a half-wrecked helmet, blood already clotting on his jaw. "Tell me his name, Librarian, so I may honor him properly."

Weaving amidst the fusillade of bolter shells, the Khan of the Fifth Legion draws back, opening the distance, making a mistake - allowing the Librarian to fully commit his powers. The psychic hood comes alive with actinic light, power coalescing at the fingertips of the loyalist, his mouth forming the words that will rend the traitor Astartes from existence. A white-hot spear of energy flashes from the pistol in the White Scar's hand, the beam boiling away ceramite, flesh, and bone alike, turning the Librarian's chest cavity into liquified fire and ash, the warp energy dissipating with concussive force as the damage done overwhelms even transhuman concentration.

The Alpha Legionnaires do not falter at the death of their leader, their bolter fire chases the elusive traitor who moves like the wind. A small sound halts the pursuit, instincts earned on a hundred battlefields making the loyalists wary - and at the first sign of renewed movement, they do their duty, giving their dead brethren the Emperor's Peace before the honored fallen could be further desecrated by the accursed Scars.

* * *

In high orbit, the Imperial Navy is closing in on the White Scar fleet - their guns find the range, batter at the scintillating void shields of the traitor vessels, explosives blooming with silent majesty on the dark tapestry of space. At an unseen signal, the previously retreating, cornered Fifth Legion vessels turn, their engines burning with hellfire as they race towards the brief chink in the blockade opened by a grand cruiser that is just a bit too slow to reposition itself. The loyalist shipmasters and rangefinders react with commendable alacrity, reacquiring their targets within a minute - but when facing veterans of endless void wars fought in the insanity of the Great Eye, that minute is too long.

Macrocannon barrages drop void shields, making way for the lance strikes to carve deep furrows into Imperial ships. Explosions follow in their wake, debris and air venting into the unrelenting cold. The Mercury-class battle cruiser _Charybdis_ transforms into a swiftly expanding ball of plasma when a well-aimed shot ruptures her warp drive. The resulting confusion is enough for the White Scar vessels to break out of the blockade, the fleet maneuvering as one, intent on venting their traitorous wrath on the Imperial ships still trying to get their bearings.

They spot the immense vessel too late, as the gigantic behemoth seemingly materializes from the void itself, a predator from the depths intent on devouring its prey. In midnight clad, born in darkness, the opening salvo from the Eighth Legion battle barge turns a White Scar cruiser into a molten, drifting husk.


	3. Chapter 3

The storm lashes the war-torn planet furiously with lightning and torrential, multi-colored rain of light, and under the unholy downpour, the dead walk once again, hunting for the Corpse Emperor's faithful - and bringing down all they can with mindless hunger. It is a testament to the discipline and courage of the Guard units that they merely waver at the sight of the onslaught - not a single unit breaks. Then again, that's also due to their survival instincts; lone soldiers or small platoons are easily torn apart by the hunting wraiths. The confines of the ruined hive cities become true slaughterhouses, blood drenching the foundations, empowering the raging storm. Ghost-like giants in bone-white power armor flash amidst the patches of darkness, reaping a tally of lives, leaving only carnage and ruin in their wake. Not even the Sons of the Hydra can keep up with the lightning-quick Scars, the corrupted Astartes feeding off the spilt blood, daubing their plate with the scarlet fluid. The Imperium's forces teeter on the brink, forced ever backwards, the dead hordes and transhuman reavers a howling, moaning whirlwind of ruination, wild, unfettered laughter echoing over the vox channels and aetheric streams alike. The agents of the Ruinous Powers are ascendant, certain that this is their hour, and finally they can give the freedom of release to the ignorant masses of the Imperium. They keep killing and killing, drunk on slaughter, seeking glory in numbers of slain rather than skill of enemies. In their blood-haze, they forget to pay attention. They forget that while they can attack the Imperium with impunity, the forces of the God-Emperor will always strike back.

Retribution arrives with a boom of displaced air, amidst the coruscating energies of a teleportation. It unfolds from the many-colored darkness with predatory quickness, silent lethality. It swarms up from the dank, forgotten depths of the hive cities. In midnight clad, justice is unleashed at long last, and the warriors of the Eighth Legion set upon their traitorous kin with bolters and blades. There is no grandstanding, no calls for duel, no precisely orchestrated false retreat to prepared killboxes, no carefully-considered tactical maneuvers. The laughing killers of the Fifth Legion are stabbed in the back by lightning claws, shot point-blank by figures that seemingly materialize from the very walls, only to fade back into the darkness in search of other prey. The _zadyin arga_ are almost swept under the tide of midnight, as the storm turns on them, hundreds of thousands of dead and dying souls howling for justice, for retribution - and the storm answers.

Batu Khan smiles with ferocity and pure happiness, the grin illuminated by the sparks from the two colliding power fields, the Night Lord's glaive scoring a deep line on his armor.

"Let's see if you can live up to your forefathers, cousin." Batu nods towards the loyalist, in respect for the other's skill.

 _thump_

Blades clash with barely perceptible speed, a whirling dance of death, feints and counters merging with seamless precision.

 _thump_

The White Scar parries the glaive's decapitating strike, his riposte scoring a deep furrow into the chest plate of the Night Lord. The loyalist releases his weapon to drop back and avoid being cut open. Batu closes with blinding speed, his blow deflected by the haft of the loyalist's weapon.

 _thump_

An eager, satisfied smile on his lips, the White Scar presses the attack, upping the tempo, the ringing of metal, the sizzling of straining power fields both distant, far-away things. Hoarfrost traces patterns under their feet, the scintillating raindrops falling with stately grace around them.

 _thump_

Sword and glaive clash with overwhelming power, the two warriors holding the bladelock for an eternal heartbeat. The smile on one's face is countered by the snarling visage of the other's still-intact helmet, then the two spin away, circling each other.

"You are good, Night Lord." A feint, a riposte, and with a grin, Batu stops the glaive's edge inches from his neck. "A shame that you sided with the Corpse Tyrant."

"Spare me the lecture, traitor." The strength of the blow unbalances the White Scar for a fraction of a second, and he can feel his armor buckling under the powerful blow of the loyalist's gauntlet. He jumps back, brings up his blade in a salute, then once again, throws himself at the Night Lord. He feels his grin widening, as the loyalist, despite being just a fraction slower, can somehow keep up with him. It has been awhile since he met such a skilled opponent. The realization hits him harder than a Dreadnought's power fist. A sublimely skilled Night Lord, using a glaive, perfectly able to counter his greater speed with almost preternatural awareness and positioning. The laughter that leaves his throat is unabashedly happy, as he begins the routines and steps of that particular dance from so long ago. That time, he could keep up for over six hours.

The Night Lord matches him blow for blow, feint for feint, and Batu can feel the blood haze trying to cloud his mind, the distant howling of thirsty, eager yaksha seeking to worm inside his mind, to usurp his place and take away the glory that will be this kill. The Khan of the White Scars just laughs at their feeble attempts - unlike so many of his own brethren, he is free of the lies whispered by the yaksha. One who has followed the Khagan when the chains laid on them by the Corpse Tyrant were thrown off will never submit to another power - only the Khagan, only Jaghatai could command his fealty.

With a brief shake of his head, Batu once again contemplates his partner for a moment, taking in his stance, movements, a myriad small tells a good swordsman would evaluate to measure his opponent. And yet, he was not quite sure, not even if he accounted for the time elapsed. Still, that skill with the glaive was not something he could forget. Bat smiled, flashing teeth. One way to find out for sure.

"Did you think we have forgotten?" The vox distorts the Night Lord's chuckle into a menacing snarl, as he parries with effort; he's just a fraction slower than the White Scar, but at this level, that's almost too much. "We remember your kind well, White Scar."

Another clash of blades, and the bat-winged mask leers close to the traitor's smiling face.

"Tell me, traitor - was the betrayal worth it?" The Night Lord underlines his question with a brutal slash, servos snarling as the two transhuman struggle. "Do you enjoy your corrupted chains, son of Chogoris?"

A flash of lightning from above, as weapons clash a dozen times before the thunder arrives.

"There are no chains on me, zealot!" Batu is no longer grinning, but he can see the savage smirk on his opponent's no longer helmeted face. For a moment, the loyalist's expression is as if hooks tugged on the flesh of a corpse. Remembering that expression, the White Scar reacts instinctively, his blade coming up to parry - and then he staggers back as the glaive's edge bites deep into his thigh from a completely unseen angle. His vision clears just in time to see the midnight-clad loyalist tower over him.

Two blades flash almost in unison, and it ends there.

* * *

Above the planet, the Night Lords battle barge is bearing down on the remnants of the White Scar fleet. While the traitor vessels have an advantage in speed and maneuverability, the Imperial behemoth's gunnery decks aim with almost preternatural precision. Every course correction, modification to speed or aspect change the corrupted Astartes vessels attempt is met with punishing macrocannon and lance volleys. Void shields shimmer in scintillating colors before becoming overwhelmed by the sheer firepower of the Imperial behemoth. It is far from the lumbering giant most would expect - then again, the long-gone Admiral Vandred has laid down a rather impressive legacy for the Eighth Legion to draw upon when conducting void warfare.

The midnight-colored leviathan circles its prey, cutting off viable escape routes with its sheer presence or the power of its guns. Return fire spatters on its void shields, bites into its armored hull, gouging furrows and craters in its wake. The vast ship plows through the traitor barrage with deceptive slowness and grace, venting tendrils of atmosphere and debris from the scratches inflicted on its ancient hide. Spinal lance batteries ignite with murderous fury, the incandescent beams of coherent light biting deep into the White Scar vessels. Secondary explosions follow, then the eternal night brightens for a moment as the lead traitor battlecruiser's engine goes critical.

The surviving ships scatter, redlining their engines in a desperate bid to escape Imperial justice. For a few minutes, they seem to succeed - as always, the White Scars' obsession with speed and maneuverability allows them to open the distance between their battered ships and the Night Lords battlebarge. Their acceleration and dispersal pattern would be enough to save them from any macrocannon barrage, and the spinal lances would not get even half of them in time.

Their assumptions and hopes are dashed when the loyalist vessel turns with a nimbleness that would be impressive from a frigate. Inertial compensators and overstressed metal shrieks under the strain, the Eighth Legion serfs and naval personnel alike praying that the Astartes at the helm calculated correctly - or at least the ship would hold together long enough to fire the last barrage needed to mete out justice.

Explosions blossom along the flanks of the battlebarge, atmosphere vents from countless microfractures, but it completes the turn, and its lance batteries flare with righteous wrath once more. A brief flicker of rapidly expanding ball of plasma, and the system is clear of traitor presence.


End file.
